


time, that gnaws at bronze lions and dolphins

by coastcitytourism



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Childhood Friendship, M/M, No plot at all, Short Drabble, a touch of angst, set in testing 2020, unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:04:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22582594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coastcitytourism/pseuds/coastcitytourism
Summary: Pierre is tangible and eternal, Charles is fleeting and ephemeral, and he will not lie to himself about their impossibilities anymore.
Relationships: (one-sided), Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	time, that gnaws at bronze lions and dolphins

**Author's Note:**

> what is this? short and descriptive and sad drabble? oh yeah buddy.  
i've been pretty unwell lately, both in the "i am Sad" sense and that I keep getting sick, and i needed to work out some descriptive literary style bullshit so...this. its not particularly good and theres 0 plot just a little musing that i had as a brainworm.  
inspired very partially about the Derek Walcott poem of the same name, which i actually want to use in more detail to write about Charles bc hello its about Italy how could I not.  
as always, this is pure fiction. please leave it on ao3.

It's cool in Barcelona, the air dry but the breezes buffeting and chilly. At the very least, it's not snowing this year, so testing is certainly more bearable than a year prior.

Pierre's dealt with the same cold chill for too many years now to keep forgetting to pack his warm clothes, but here he's managed it once again- his gloves are somewhere on the floor of his bedroom in Italy, he's sure of it, and it had only been down to the graciousness of his PR officer and the marketing team's ever-hungry demands for candids of the drivers wearing merch that he had long sleeves- two layers of fresh Alpha Tauri branded jackets on top of his fireproofs, to be exact.

The paddock is decidedly empty as he steps out of the rear threshold of the garage- few straggling photographers and journalists seemingly packing it up for the night, their bright purple lanyards seeming over-saturated compared to the gray sky, the gray asphalt, the gray paddock buildings, only fitting in against the all too familiar shades of Ferrari red and Renault yellow. Pierre shivers once against the breeze, eyes locked on nothing tangible on the far end of the paddock. Testing was going fine; the car was fine, completely manageable and mostly unsurprising in its evolution, and the team was familiar as ever- the entire spectacle less of a breakthrough and more of an awakening from a not so deep hibernation, re-oiling all the moving parts that make F1 possible. Not monotonous, Pierre thinks, but nothing absurd either.

The wind picks up as he crosses between the tall yellow walls of Renault's hospitality and garage, taking a moment to nod at some of the familiar faces that pass in front of him. As if on cue, there's a familiar figure draped in blood red that sidles up to the Frenchman, matching his pace and bumping his shoulder companionably.

"Salut, Pierre," Charles says simply, reaching to gently pull one of Pierre's hands out of the poorly insulated mesh pocket of his windbreaker that it's shoved into and maneuver it into the fleecy red of Charles own. "Prends ça," he mumbles, pressing a still-warm hand warmer packet into Pierre's palm and closing his own hand around the calloused digits of the Frenchman. 

"Merci," Pierre says sincerely, his hand thawing in Charles own. The Monegasque manages a tiny and skewed smile and a soft squeeze to the delicate skin stretched over Pierre's wrist. It's a small touch but it brings years of memories flooding back- Pierre chasing Charles through the packed streets of Monte-Carlo after Sunday Mass, both racing as fast as their feet could carry them to the little café by the harbor that always turned on the F1 races when the boys came running into the double doors, chests heaving and giggling hysterically at each other-

"I miss the blue," Charles laughs, snapping Pierre out of his nostalgia, "You guys look so goth in all this black Alpha Tauri stuff now."

"Yeah," Pierre breathes spacily, halfheartedly agreeing. He's constantly aware of the weight of Charles's own hand around his own, pulling it down, feeling all too familiar and yet so very foreign at the same time. More often than not Pierre wishes he lived there, in the warmth of the Monegasque's touch, and not in the periphery of his world. 

"What are you thinking about?" Charles quips, his head tipped to the side like that of an inquisitive dog.

Charles didn't and doesn't want him, that much Pierre knows. Pierre's the familiar coastline that Charles's waves beat against and erode, lap up to in familiar rhythm on his calm days. Pierre is tangible and eternal, Charles is fleeting and ephemeral, and he will not lie to himself about their impossibilities anymore. Charles is the present and the future, and Pierre is the past- the boy Red Bull chewed up and spit out and left for dead.

"Nothing," Pierre says, steps growing a bit smaller when they near the FIA garage. It's a lie, a complete one-eighty from the truth, but it's a truth that nobody but himself ever needs to know.

"Absolutely nothing at all," he finishes, willing the passing warmth from Charles's hand into the rest of his cold body.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, all feedback is appreciated, even tho this is peak random braindump.  
thank you for reading.


End file.
